Chronicles Of An Academic Predator - 9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

June 14, 1962

Claremont, Ohio

When we got to our house, I thought about showing Stefan around, but I was more interested in getting to know him, so I just dropped my mother off. Stefan took that opportunity to move up to the front seat, and I began our tour of Claremont. I drove him around the Heights, then around downtown to grab a bite to eat at the local drive-in. That's where all the teenagers hung out, people he'd ultimately get to know, so I figured I might as well introduce him to it. We ordered some classic American food, cheeseburgers and fries, and sat there in the Pontiac, talking as we watched the teenagers hanging out.

“Your mother is a nice lady. My own mother was not so nice, but I miss her anyway.” He seemed deep in thought.

“You're right about my mother. She's one of the nicest people you'll meet. She moved here from France right after she married my father, so she knows what you're going through. Your grandmother was the one who helped her acclimate, so between the two of them, you're in good hands.” He smiled at that. “What was your mother like?”

“She was tall, shrewd, sometimes drunk, sometimes she beat me, but I remember mostly that she always watched out for me, made sure I had the basic necessities. Beyond that, I was on my own.” He paused, as if gathering his thoughts, and looked away from me, out the window.

“You seem like the kind of guy who can take care of himself,” I said, acknowledging his trek to the United States.

He turned back to look at me and gave me a brief smile to thank me for saying that, but then let his introspective mood return. “She did what she had to do to support us. The neighbors called her a whore, but they never tried to help us. She caught pneumonia last winter and never quite beat it. She wouldn't go to the hospital. She claimed she hated doctors, but I think she was scared. When she finally went, it was too late.” A tear trickled down his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” I said, meaningless words that I felt I should say.

“She didn't tell me about my father until then. She gave me the letters along with some money and made me promise to go to America. At first I didn't want to. I had found some ways to make money, and I figured that I could survive on my own just fine.” It's as if once he started talking, he couldn't stop. We finished our cheeseburgers so we followed that up by ordering some milkshakes, then we sat in the Pontiac in a quiet corner of the drive-in, guzzling them down while he unburdened himself.

“So what made you decide to come over here?”

“Right after my mother died, our landlord told me that I had to move out. He agreed to let me stay until the end of the month after I threatened to call the authorities, but he is a bastard anyway, and I didn't want to stay in that place any more. So I took what stuff I needed and put it in a bag. No one wanted to rent a room to a 16-year- old orphan, so for a few days I lived on the streets, sleeping in the gardens, or wherever.” His tone had become bitter.

He paused while we were interrupted by the carhop. I paid the bill, and that was his cue to continue.

“Then one night some guys came by and stole all of my stuff. All of my clothes, my pictures, everything. The only things they didn't get were my money and those letters, because I hid them in my shoe. They searched me everywhere else,” he cringed when he said that, “but didn't look there.”

“That must have really sucked,” I offered sympathetically.

He ignored me and went on, as if he was determined to purge himself by telling his story. “I had an, er, acquaintance at the Sorbonne who helped me out for a few days, gave me a place to stay. I guess at that point I decided to go to America, not so much because of my situation, because I knew with his help I could ultimately get on my feet, but because I was lonely. It is very depressing to be all alone in the world, with no one to help you, no one to care about you. People only do things for you if you do things for them in return. Everything is a business transaction.” The despondency in his voice was clear.

I reached out and put my arm around him in the most loving way I could imagine while seated behind the wheel of a car. “Well Stefan, you're safe and sound here. You'll find that people, your family, will do things for you just because they love and care about you, without expecting you to do things in return. It's a new life for you.”

“I would not have believed you but for what happened upon my arrival. When I got here last night, my grandmother, even though we barely understood each other, just hugged me and hugged me. I felt so loved, but it is frustrating because I cannot communicate. I have to learn English. Fast.”

“I can help you with that, and then we can find a tutor for you when we get back from Chicago.” The mention of Chicago changed his demeanor.

“Thank you so much for taking me with you! I am so excited to see all the very tall buildings, what do you call them? Skyscrapers?” He became alive and animated.

“That's right,” I told him, as we started to drive around some more. I took him to the east side of town; he needed to see it all.

“This looks like the kind of place that I used to live in. Bellevue is like this. Poor people are ugly. I never want to be poor again.” Was there or was there not a hint of arrogance in his voice?

“There's nothing wrong with being poor. Most of these people are hard workers. They just haven't been lucky, or educated. There are a bunch of different things that can cause them to be poor. It is the job of those of us who are more fortunate to do all we can to help them improve their situation.” My parents had always ingrained this into me, that we were luckier, but not better than the poor.

“No one helped me when I was poor. No one did anything other than spit on me and call me names. There was no help, only hindrance, trying to keep me from succeeding at anything. No one helped me, so why should I help anyone else?” The bitterness in his voice was disturbing, and so was his lack of compassion.

“Stefan, you're still thinking of life as a series of business transactions. You help people because they need help, and because it's the right thing to do. You of all people should know what that can mean, having been poor, and now being, uh, privileged.” These were important precepts, if he didn't understand the social compact in Claremont, he could have, and cause, problems.

“Easy for you to say. Spare me your lectures on noblesse oblige,” he said bitterly. He made this incredible statement and then stared straight ahead, avoiding eye contact and conversation. I was conscious of the fact that I'd gotten a view inside a very disturbed young man. I wonder if we, as a family, could help him understand his role here, and if we could help him adjust to the huge change he would have to make. We drove back toward downtown, both of us deep in thought, and both of us intensely irritated with the other. I decided to take him back home. I needed some time and space to figure out how to handle him. When I began heading back to his house, he grabbed my arm and almost started sobbing.

“JP, I am sorry if I offended you. I have been traveling for days, and while I am not tired, I am fatigued. So much has changed. Please forgive me if I am a bit moody and say things that I do not mean.” He looked at me, pleading. I was smart enough to realize that he did mean what he said, but at the same time, he deserved some leeway. “I'm going to need your help to fit in here. Please be patient with me.” I had a feeling I was being played, but he had such a cute smile and a dimple in his right cheek that made him almost irresistible. That alone was reason enough to cut him some slack.

“I'm sorry too. This is a lot for you to deal with. Society in France is a lot different than in America, and I just want you to be able to fit in as easily as possible. That's all.” He looked at me, trying to hide his dubious expression. I decided to change the subject. “You said they took all your stuff. Do you have any clothes?

“Just a few things that we found in the house. They belonged either to my father or to Uncle Billy. They don't fit me all that well, and they are pretty old.” I hadn't really noticed his clothes before then, but now that he mentioned it, I recognized those pants as Billy's, and the shirt was horribly out of fashion.

“Well then, let's do some shopping. We'll buy you some stuff here, and then, when we're in Chicago, we can go to Marshall Fields and see what they have there.” I marveled to myself that my expeditions with young men always seemed to involve shopping.

“I don't have any money with me. I don’t have any money at all. I don't want to impose.” He was suddenly once again the poor boy from the Paris slums.

“Don't worry about that. Your grandmother would have taken you anyway. She'll want you to have decent things to wear.” I almost said “we can't have you looking like a poor child” when I caught myself, and the hypocrisy of the thought alone caused me to chide myself. Maybe I needed to re-learn the social lessons myself.

I put those thoughts aside and focused on shopping. In three hours of intense activity, we managed to get Stefan the beginnings of a new wardrobe. I found he had an innate sense of fashion; maybe that's something that you get simply by being a Parisian. In any event, the trunk of the Pontiac was jammed full by the time we got back to the Schluters.

Tonto was thrilled that I'd gotten him clothes, thrilled that I'd showed him the town, and thrilled that he actually had someone to talk to. “I've found an English tutor that lives 10 miles from here. I've hired him to start teaching Stefan English when you get back from Chicago. I set up his first lesson on June 21. Will that work?”

“That will be just fine,” I said, kissing her cheek. “I should get home.” I went upstairs to find Stefan unpacking all of his purchases, looking like a kid in a candy store. I told him I was leaving, which seemed to really upset him. I told him that they'd all be coming to dinner in just a few hours, and that I needed to clean up and so did he. He looked at me like a lost puppy as I was leaving, but I was finding it harder to feel sorry for him, now that I'd gotten a glimpse of the real Stefan underneath.

Dinner that evening was not an unqualified success. It was awkward, with conversations persisting in two separate languages. My mother and I, and to a lesser degree my father, could communicate in both English and French, but there was a huge gulf between the Schluters and their new grandson. After dinner, Stefan asked permission to use the phone to call France. He wanted to let a few of his friends know that he was safe and sound.

With him now out of the room, the rest of us reverted to English to talk about his future. English lessons were one thing, but what about school? Tonto was going to have quite a project, figuring that one out. The next big issue was evidently his name. He went by Stefan Bordet, but we all agreed that he should use Schluter. And everyone except me agreed that I was the one who should explain it to him. They also agreed that since he had bonded with me, he should be allowed to stay with me, so he was going to spend the night tonight and tomorrow night, and he'd move back with the Schluters when we got back from Chicago. I felt bullied into this arrangement, but I remembered that my parents had just given me a palatial condo in Chicago, and all that they were asking of me was that I babysit for a few days. I gracefully acquiesced.

June 15, 1962

I was eating lunch out by the pool when Stefan finally woke up. He stumbled out to join me, and with a typical teenage appetite began to tear through the food I'd brought out. We were eating when Sammy came walking by. I introduced him to Stefan, but Stefan shook his hand as if Sammy had the plague. Sammy didn't seem to notice, or care, but I did.

“Is that one of your slaves?” he asked, to which I could only stare at him incredulously.

“No, there are no slaves in America. Slavery's been abolished for 100 years now.” I was clearly irritated.

“Slaves, servants, call them what you will, but it well known that colored people are considered to be, how do you say, sub-human in America.” His arrogance surprised me, and the fact that there was a lot of truth in what he was saying made me uncomfortable.

“That's true in some parts of the country, but not here. And we're working hard to change things. Sammy's parents are employees, not servants, and to me they are like a second family. And when you go to school this fall, Sammy will probably be in some of your classes. The correct way to treat him is as an equal.” He could not miss the irritation and anger in my voice, largely because I hadn't tried to hide it.

“And what about, what do you call men who have sex with other men, faggots? Queers? Are they treated as equals too?” He threw this at me as if it were a spear. Where did this come from? Why would he ask me? Is he a fag? Does he think I am?

“No, they are scorned and ridiculed. Homosexuality is considered a disease or disorder by society.” I'd never really talked about being queer in these terms, and my words disturbed me as much as his.

“What do you think?” he asked. This was getting way to personal.

“I think people should be allowed to live their private lives however they choose.” I sensed he wanted to pursue this topic, so I changed the subject. “We need to talk about your name.”

“What about my name. What's wrong with Stefan?” He was defensive, which wasn’t a surprise based on the way I was confronting him about it. But at this point, I wasn’t all that concerned with his feelings.

“There's nothing wrong with your first name, but I want to talk to you about your last name.” I had raised my armor, and I had my calm, imperturbable face on. He seemed to sense the change.

“My last name is Bordet,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Not any more. You last name is now Schluter.” It came out colder than I had planned, and it irritated me that I’d let him annoy me enough that I wasn’t handling this conversation very well.

“But I can hardly even say that. And I like my name. Why should I change it?” His protests had changed so that now he was whining. There weren’t many things I hated more than whining, but I put that aside and tried to explain things to him logically.

“Look, we were talking about social stigmas. If you go to school with a different last name than “Schluter”, and everyone knows that was your father's last name, they will assume you are a bastard.” That hit him hard, harder than I imagined. I reached out and put my hand on his shoulder. “I'm not trying to take away your heritage or anything from your mother, but I'm just thinking about how to make it easier for you to fit in here.”

“New clothes, new name, a new language. I won't even recognize myself when you are done.” It was a play on my sympathy, but it backfired completely, and instead it just pissed me off.

“If you don't want new clothes, we'll take them back. If you don't want a new name, that's fine, but don't complain when other people talk about you behind your back or make fun of you. If you don't want to learn English, then you won't be able to survive in this country. You can make all these decisions. I'm just trying to help you. If you don't want my help, that's fine. Just say so.” I said this, not maliciously, but in a neutral manner, as if I was laying out his options. Still, there was no way he could mistake the anger that lay underneath my even tone.

He all but glared at me. “How do I ask one of your servants to bring me something to drink?”

“Let me show you. Follow me.” We walked across the patio, into the house, and into the kitchen. I went over to the refrigerator and opened it wide. “What would you like?”

“One of those Cokes would be good,” he said.

“Great,” I said and I grabbed one and handed it to him. He looked at me with a funny expression and I said, “If you want something to drink, you get it yourself. There are no servants here.” With that I calmly turned around and went back outside to finish my lunch, hopefully alone.

I finished my lunch and went back to my room to work on my latest research project. I'd begun analyzing the failures of the French government in Southeast Asia, culminating in the disaster at Dien Bien Phu. There was a knock on my door, which turned out to be my mother.

“JP, what did you say to Stefan? He is so upset. This adjustment is going to be very difficult for him. It is our job, our duty, to help him.” So the little brat had gone and told my mommy that I was mean to him.

“Mother, that young man has some serious issues to deal with; otherwise he's going to be big trouble to our family. He has no idea of how to behave and how to treat other people. And it's not learned behavior; it's what he is inside.” I wasn't convincing her.

“And you have divined this after spending 24 hours with him? Do you think that destroying what little self esteem he has is helpful? I did not raise you to be so uncharitable, especially to your family. He is grasping at you like a drowning man, and you are letting him sink.” She didn't understand, wouldn't understand, but she was succeeding in making me feel guilty. Even if I could explain why I was worried, she wouldn't listen to me.

“I'm sorry, Mother. I'll try to be more patient. Maybe tomorrow, when we're away from Claremont and in the big city, things will be easier.” I felt like a coward for not defending my actions, but why fight a losing battle. She'd figure it out on her own soon enough.

She kissed me on my cheek. “Thank you. I knew I could count on you. I think, between us all, we will be able to help him adapt to this town. But we must give him time, and be patient.” And with that she left.

She could give him time, she could be patient, but I had his number. The kid was an asshole, and they'd find that out themselves soon enough. He spent the rest of the day with my mother, apparently pulling a perfect “Eddie Haskell” on her. I resigned myself with the thought that in a few months I'd be 400 miles away and he wouldn't be my problem anymore.

June 16, 1962

Northern Indiana

Stefan seemed to realize that he had pushed me way too far, and so, by unspoken agreement, we kept our conversations on the drive to Chicago to safe subjects. He told me how he loved architecture, and studied it whenever he could. He told me that he used to roam Paris and sketch buildings that caught his attention, and he even sold a few of the sketches to tourists. Architecture turned out to be our common love, and we spent most of the drive arguing about which buildings in Paris were the best. Heading to Chicago, the home of Frank Lloyd Wright, had filled him with excitement.

We also made practicing his English part of our trip, and he was catching on fast. His vocabulary was expanding rapidly, and his grammar was better. Stefan may have attitude issues, but he certainly wasn't stupid.

It was still daylight when we got to Chicago. While I drove pretty fast and I was very lucky I didn't get a ticket, these new interstate highways made cross country driving relatively easy. We got to the South Side and turned on to Lake Shore Drive, which has to be one of the prettiest roads in the world. I pulled over to the side of the road and put the top down so we could see the skyline as we drove north.

The buildings were monstrous. Stefan stared with such rapt attention I gave up trying to carry on a conversation. I just sat back and enjoyed the ride, passing Buckingham Fountain and Grant Park, then the miles of shore on one side and skyscrapers on the other. Finally, at Hollywood, we turned north onto Sheridan, which pretty much mirrored the Drive. Now my anticipation was palpable as I looked for my building. I'd memorized the address and the pictures, so it wasn't too hard to find. I got there and paused outside, taking in the tower that would be my home. It was magnificent.

I drove into the garage, and found that the organization of that space appealed to me mightily. All the parking spaces were numbered based on our condo numbers. My condo was 2001, and since I had a three-bedroom condo I had two spaces, numbered 2001A and 2001B. We found them and parked. This underground parking garage would be priceless this winter. I smiled at Stefan and he smiled back at me, sharing my happiness as I discovered this new part of my life.

The elevator was new and fast, and it whisked us up to the 20^th floor in no time. There were only four condos on this floor, all three-bedroom models, so the elevator lobby was small but elegant. They'd put down marble floors, with wood paneled walls stained in a light color. I thought how timeless and classy those choices were, and how they would age well.

I turned the key and walked into paradise. I couldn't believe that this place was mine. There was a foyer, more marble and wood, which led into a large living room and dining room. Those rooms had floor to ceiling windows, with doors that opened to the balcony outside. I headed straight for the balcony. It was a marvelous day, with a slight breeze blowing off the lake. The balcony was about eight feet wide and four feet deep, certainly wide enough to get an outdoor table and a grill. I just stood there, basking in the beauty, ecstatic that I had such a fabulous place! Stefan moved up next to me and put his arm over my shoulder and I instinctively wrapped mine around his waist. I felt bliss, true bliss, as I bonded with my condo. “Welcome home,” Stefan said, and that just made me happier, emphasizing that this place was mine.

Ultimately, practicality broke the spell, and we set to work unloading my car. I didn't realize how much stuff I had brought with me, but I was sure glad Stefan was there to help me. It took us three hours to lug all the stuff up, and by then we were both exhausted and sweaty. I dug through my boxes to find a couple of towels and shower stuff, and sent him off to try the guest bath while I bonded with the master bath. We made ourselves presentable then meandered around the neighborhood until we found a restaurant, and pigged out.

Maybe it was my elated mood, or maybe we were starting to understand each other, but I had to admit that Stefan had been good company that day. I resolved that educating him on all the social graces was not my responsibility, and decided that if I abdicated that task we'd get along much better. I was actually starting to like him, and, slut that I am, that made him more attractive. He reminded me so much of Billy, with that “Tab Hunter” look, only his face was thinner. Somehow that just made him even more handsome.

Tab Hunter

When we got back, I had one thought and one thought only: sleep. I was exhausted. The long day, the long drive, unloading the car, and eating a huge meal had made me completely lethargic. It dawned on me that I only had one bed. As a housewarming present Tonto had bought me a new Queen size bed and had it delivered to the condo. That was just like her, always thinking of the most practical and useful gifts. I wasn't sure if I liked it, because it was almost Gothic in appearance. The frame, headboard, and footboard were all solid metal, it seemed like iron, but the mattress was pillow soft. One thing's for sure, this bed wasn't going to move no matter what I did in it, and the thought of that made me giggle.

Stefan helped me make the bed with the sheets I'd brought from home. “We only have this one bed, so we can either share it, or I can sleep on the floor. The carpeting feels soft enough,” I said, pushing my shoe into the plush carpet.

“I do not mind sharing the bed if you do not,” Stefan said with a smile. “I've slept in worse places, and with worse people.”

“Oh really? Worse people? You better explain that mister.” I tried to tackle him but I was too slow and tired.

“You are too old and feeble to catch me,” he taunted. He stood there, just out of reach to tease me, then, with the energy of youth he finished putting together the bed, dragging out the pillows, and other bedding items, all with minimal help from my lazy ass.

When sharing a bed with someone for the first time, there's always that awkward question about what to wear. I decided to let him take the lead, and went to the bathroom to get ready for bed. I stripped and wrapped my towel around my waist, figuring that I if he was nude I could just jump in bed, and if he was in his underwear I could make a show of digging for a clean pair and then jumping into bed. I made sure to take a long time, that way he’d already be in bed.

The room was dark when I got back from the bathroom, so I had to gingerly dodge the boxes to find the bed. I let my eyes adjust to the darkness, and once they had, I could see the room clearly. The moonlight almost glared through the open windows, reminding me that curtains were a priority. I sat on the bed, gently pulling the covers back. Stefan was lying on his stomach with his head turned away from me. I pulled the covers back further to see if he was wearing underwear. He wasn't.

The view from my balcony, my whole apartment, was beautiful, but nothing compared to the sight of Stefan in the bed with the moonlight filtering through the uncovered windows, highlighting his spectacular form. He had just the right amount of fat on him, enough to keep him from being bony, but not so much that it covered up his developing muscles. The way he was lying accentuated his strong shoulders, with a dusting of hair peeking out from the crevice between his arm and his back. I moved my eyes lower, noticing every curve, every hair, everything. I pulled the covers down a little more to expose his ass: the most beautiful ass I'd ever seen. He had adorable dimples on his butt, and I just sat there in a daze, staring.

At this point, when I realized that my dick was hard as a rock, I should have started thinking about the implications of fucking around with my 16-year-old cousin, and wrestled my libido under control. For some reason, the normal objections to that didn't seem to apply. I forced myself to analyze that, to make sure I wasn’t just rationalizing. I could have felt that way because Stefan looked so much like Billy, but I think the better reason was his air of worldliness that made him seem much more experienced and older than he actually was.

While lusting after him didn't trouble my conscience, getting caught lusting after him did. He moved a little bit, slightly thrusting himself into the bed, which only accentuated the dimples in his ass more, in addition to showing off his well-developed leg muscles. I realized with horror that I was sitting there next to him, staring at his ass, with a raging hardon. I quickly slid under the covers, and turned my back to him. If I had tried to spoon up next to him I would have stabbed him with my dick.

He was still for a bit, then I felt him roll over first away from me, then he rolled up against me. I could feel his chest pressed against my back, his upper legs sliding over the back of my legs. He was holding his groin away from me, and I wondered if it was because he was as hard as I was.

There are times where you get to a point of no return, and make one of those life-changing decisions more on a whim or a desire rather than any rational thought. I made that decision, now, more out of curiosity than anything, I gently pushed my ass back against him, toward his groin. He sensed the movement and responded by pushing forward, and I felt his rock hard cock slide past my taint and press against my balls. The logical me screamed that I should stop this, that he was my cousin, that he was 10 years younger than I was, and that I was taking advantage of a lonely young man. His left hand brushed over my nipple, slipped lower and traced my treasure trail down to my pubes, gently playing with them as he moved his hand lower and lower. If I had any resistance left, it vanished when he wrapped his hand around my cock, causing me to moan, probably a little too loudly.

“You like that?” he whispered huskily into my ear.

“Oh yeah,” I murmured, leaning back into him.

“Marc Sievres told me you would. He is my friend at the Sorbonne.”